Perchance to Dream

by Lyssa Chiavari

  Julianne, thought Rubix. She’d given him her name.

  “It’s—because—there’s so much good in spite of it,” she stammered on quietly. “I think, deep down, everyone wants to do good. Even demons.”

  Rubix stood.

  Julianne stood, too, her chin stubbornly lifted.

  “Cinderella time, I’m afraid,” said Rubix, forcing a smile. “I daresay you’ll catch trouble talking to me.”

  “I’m still glad I did,” Julianne replied.

  Rubix gave a half-shrug and slung his coat over his arm. He left without paying for his meal.

  Half a block away, in an alleyway still shattered from the bombing, he leaned against the jagged brick wall, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his face, hard. She was most definitely getting under his skin—and into his heartless heart.

  And this could be a problem.

  ❦

  SATAN’S QUARTERS, PURGATORY. DATE: NULL

  Satan had a wicked sense of style, and Purgatory had plenty of fashion designers who’d cared more about clothes than about who wore them. As such, Satan was attired in a striking three-piece suit, immaculately fitted to every angle of his form.

  It also fit who he was. Devilishly handsome, shamelessly chiseled, brilliantly sinful, fiendishly rogue. A lock of his dark hair hung mischievously over his forehead; he had such perfectly straight, white teeth that when he smiled it almost cast a spell. To look at him was to be cut by his sharpness. He carried an aura of darkness wherever he went.

  His quarters were sparsely decorated: hard floors; ceilings as tall as a cathedral, but with no paintings; strange-colored lights that cast strange-colored shadows. A tessellated wood screen along the wall added an oddly 1960s aura.

  And mirrors. They were everywhere. All shapes and sizes, all frameless, all reflecting pieces of Satan as he stood on the dais in the middle of the three largest, like a bride at a wedding shop.

  He stepped down from the platform as Rubix entered the room. Rubix kept the folded-up paper clasped in his hand as he drew near. It was a summons. Rubix had only ever seen Satan standing at the stage podium at the Purgatory-wide company meetings, so far away he was a speck. He’d never actually been summoned by Satan before. He wasn’t an important enough demon for that.

  Or so he had thought.

  Rubix spoke before Satan had a chance. “You summoned me?”

  Satan corrected him just as quickly. “‘You summoned me, Master’.”

  “You summoned me, Master?” Rubix repeated, so innocently it was offensive.

  Satan paused, then returned to straightening his tie in front of one of his numerous reflections. “It’s come to our attention that you haven’t been quite, ah, as zealous with your assignments as you once were.”

  Rubix didn’t have anything to say to this, so he kept quiet.

  “You used to be very good. Your supervisor tells me you always met the quota. And it is thanks to you we have Zedick in our ranks.”

  Cloud Hawk. Rubix didn’t react, but Julianne’s words echoed within him.

  “Tell me... ah...” Satan paused with that prompt, his dark eyes searching Rubix.

  Rubix rolled his eyes. I’ve been working in Purgatory since the dawn of time, and he still doesn’t care to remember my name.

  A quieter, sweeter voice whispered in his mind: “Of course I remember them... every single one...”

  Julianne had remembered his name.

  After a long pause under Satan’s cold, bright stare, Rubix gave in and offered his name: “Rubix.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” said Satan warmly. “Rubix. Tell me, Rubix. Your supervisor has shown me your charts, and it seems there’s recently been a steady downgrowth in your salesmanship. It’s almost like your heart isn’t in your work anymore.”

  Rubix folded the paper in his hands yet another time before answering.

  “Well, that’s a faulty accusation,” he said lightly. “I don’t have a heart.”

  “Oddly, your job performance has dropped significantly since your little café chat with a certain angel.”

  Rubix froze. Satan had seen. How had Satan seen? As far as he knew, he’d been the only demon on the assignment.

  “Ever since then, your work simply hasn’t been acceptable,” said Satan. He smiled, a sickly sincere smile.

  “That was ages ago,” said Rubix carefully, as Satan straightened his tie in the mirror. “I’d almost forgotten it myself. Anyway, it wasn’t really a chat. You know how angels don’t stick around.”

  “Hm,” said Satan. “Nedock?”

  Rubix turned as a figure stepped out from the shadows near the tessellated screen. He was dressed smartly in a Nazi uniform, boots to the knees, hands clasped behind his back. He had piercing blue eyes. Rubix immediately recognized the Nazi officer who’d stood on the corner near the Rotterdam café. He trained his face into an impassive stare.

  “I didn’t realize you had another agent on my assignment,” he said coolly.

  “Nedock was on the Gruber assignment,” said Satan, “but he saw you ‘in conversation’.”

  “It was a ‘chat’,” said Nedock, the curl of his lip revealing pointed teeth. “He was talking to her. And it was disgusting.”

  “The Gruber assignment?” Rubix repeated. “The Hilda Gruber assignment? So, tell me—did she take the visas to the Dutch resistance after all?” He chuckled at the other demon’s expression. “She did, didn’t she? That means the angel won... and you lost, Nedock.”

  Nedock lunged at him with an angry hiss. The world was a blur and a tangle as Nedock and Rubix fought and clawed and hit the floor.

  “Calm yourselves, please,” said Satan.

  Nedock gave Rubix one last kick, extracted himself and slithered over to Satan. Rubix had the last laugh, however. Nedock had lost to Julianne. Well done, angel.

  Satan turned back to his mirror and began to straighten the lining of his suit at the cuffs. “We expect better things from you, Reuben. If you don’t show any growth in your sales, you will be transferred to the BKD again. You do have so much experience there.”

  BKD. The Brimstone Kindling Department. Rubix had spent nigh unto eternity trying to get promoted out of that department. Shoveling, shoveling, shoveling... some days he would report to work, and they’d have him shoveling what he’d shoveled the day before into where it had previously been. The smell of sulfur still burned in his nostrils, long after the visions of piles of molten rock had faded.

  “Of course... Master,” said Rubix, bowing so Satan could not see how anger had turned his face red. He whipped around quickly and strode past Nedock—who smugly raised his chin—and out of the room.

  “‘Reuben’,” he fumed.

  ❦

  HEAVEN, SECTOR .00863. DATE: NULL

  Julianne hadn’t been to this area of Heaven in quite a long time, even though it was her favorite sector. She’d gone here all the time when she was younger, excitedly thinking about all the things she’d do when she was a mortal. But since she’d gotten her clearance to be born, she’d tried to focus on her work until the time came.

  As she neared the Department of Life and Death building, a grand, stately structure with pillars that disappeared into the misty sky, she felt the familiar sensation of excitement fluttering inside of her—like the feeling of having swallowed a hummingbird. Clouds drifted over her feet and the fog curled with each step as she climbed the stairs, took a deep breath, and clanged the knocker of the massive wood door three times.

  It wasn’t long before the door creaked open with a cavernous echo. The man at the door wore a long white robe, his wings tucked behind his back. His face was wrinkled from thousands of years of smiling; his back was stooped from sitting at a desk for almost as long.

  His face brightened into a warm grin when he saw Julianne standing timidly on the portico.

  “Miss Julianne,” he said. “I certainly haven’t seen you here in a while. Do come in, won’t you?”

  She didn’t need
to be asked twice, positively leaping through the doorway after Bob, the Archangel of Life. His name was actually Robert, but he insisted everyone call him Bob, because—in spite of being one of the most ancient beings in Heaven—“Robert is an aged, stuffy name.”

  Julianne followed him into The Hall of the Living. Millions of hourglasses stood on every available surface—desks, tables, chairs, thousands of cabinets. They even hung from the ceiling. The hall was so vast that the distant hourglasses were only pinpricks of glitter.

  And each hourglass was unique: some were trimmed with braided wood, some were glimmering white, some were carved ebony. Some even had colored glass. But all of them had the same attribute: the Sand of Life—the white, translucent dust that stars were made of—flowed inside them. These were the hourglasses of the living.

  Julianne reverently walked among them, admiring the craftsmanship of each.

  “I haven’t been here in a while,” she admitted to Bob, who was dusting the nearby hourglasses. “Not since I got clearance. I wanted to focus on the Work.”

  “Good girl, good girl,” he said airily, but then added, “Did you see? While you’ve been out working like a zephyr, they’ve brought your sand to cabinet forty-seven. What do you think of that, eh?”

  “Forty-seven!” Julianne echoed, positively beaming. She cast a glance back toward the entranceway. To the right of it was the Hall of Files, a room which she had visited often. Its walls were lined with never-ending drawers, each holding its own hourglass, labeled with a name and designated Life Sand. Every cabinet numbered according to the wait to be born.

  The fluttering in Julianne’s chest could have caused a tornado. Soon it would be cabinet forty-six, then forty-five, then forty-four, all the way down to one... and then...!

  Julianne’s smile faded as she remembered her conversation with Rubix at the Rotterdam café.

  “What is on your mind, Miss Julianne?” asked Bob, polishing a glass with the large sleeve of his robe.

  It took a moment for Julianne to voice the words. “Hourglasses of the never-borns... where are they?”

  Bob slowly set the hourglass he was polishing down.

  “Well. Let’s see, here,” he said.

  A short time later, Julianne found herself in the basement of the Hall of the Living, a dark, cavernous room that was lit only by one hanging lamp. It smelled thickly of must; the air here had not been stirred in a long time. Julianne gazed at the mess and tangle of hourglasses before her.

  If there were spiders in Heaven (and there weren’t), the room would have been thick with cobwebs and the empty shells of dead insects. Instead, everything was covered in the glitter-dust that was found in Heaven. It sparkled with each step Julianne took forward into the mess.

  And mess it was, for although the dust improved the look of things, the hourglasses themselves were horrible, twisted creatures of different shapes and sizes. They reminded Julianne of skeletons, devoid of life and hope. These were the hourglasses of those who had chosen to become demons, and who had forfeited their birthright. They lay unused in a dissolute state on the tables and the floor, in large piles that extended as far as the eye could see.

  “Do you know where Rubix Jarnham’s hourglass might be?” she asked Bob.

  “The demon?” Bob’s cheery, wrinkled smile faded a little. He had helped Julianne find Rubix’s file, epochs ago. “I—don’t know, Miss Julianne. I’m afraid it makes little difference whose hourglass is whose down here.”

  “Then I will find it,” said Julianne firmly, and she stepped into the tangle of hourglasses.

  Bob’s faded smile now turned to a frown, one with the power to fully remind Julianne that he was Master Archangel Robert, not just Bob. She lowered her gaze to her feet.

  “He has good in him, Master Robert,” she said meekly. “I’ve felt it.”

  Bob’s frown remained stolid. “I’ve seen angels fall from keeping company with demons. But I have never seen a demon rise from keeping company with angels,” he said. “You be careful, Miss Julianne.”

  Julianne nodded, still looking down at her feet. Bob seemed to fade away, back to his work upstairs, and she turned her attention to the hourglasses, picking her way through each pile, reading the dusty plaques at the base of each one. Zebulon Keller, read one in etched letters. Charlotte Brandywine. Dedicor Hollow.

  There was no concept of time in Heaven, but it seemed years before Julianne found it. Buried underneath a pile of twisted black hourglasses with starved-looking glass. Carved from fine, deep walnut, with thorny posts and dusty bowls. Rubix Grosvenor Saulus Jarhnam.

  And it was empty. No Life Sand would ever fill this glass.

  Julianne held the hourglass to her chest for a long, long time.

  ❦

  LONDON, ENGLAND. DATE: 1666 AD

  Night had fallen, but it had been dark all day with smoke from the raging London fire. Now it had billowed into a storm of its own, and burning hot embers rained over the panicked Londoners who clogged the streets, carrying what belongings they could to escape the fire. It reminded Rubix of the Vesuvian eruption, when he and Julianne had met the second time—the sky ablaze, hot wind almost whipping the bundle he carried out of his arms.

  Granted, everything reminded him of Julianne these days. She was in his mind and in his heart—he was convinced, now, that he had one—constantly. Satan’s reprimand, ages ago, had not changed that. He’d tried to make a decent effort of it, convincing his assignments to choose darkness, but it hadn’t lasted long. He’d realized what a heel he was being.

  The BKD wasn’t far off, and he knew it. There’d be netherworld eyes watching him on this assignment. He’d have to do everything in lockstep if he wanted to keep his feet in the mortal world.

  Rubix pushed through the crowds of people, searching for his assignment.

  “See here, you’re off the wrong way!” someone yelled at him above the roar of the fire. “You’ll be no better’n coal in less than a mile!”

  “One less person in the streets!” another Londoner yelled back.

  If this elicited any laughter, Rubix didn’t hear it. He threaded his way through, and the further he got from the old Roman gate that led to the outer city, the thinner the crowd became. The smoke grew oppressive; heat burned his face. The last of the stragglers, the ones who had hoped the fire would not jump streets (it did) were hurriedly gathering their valuables and trundling out of their wood-and-brick houses. The fire was so close now, flames licked the roofs of houses nearby. A brigade added to the cacophony and noise, tearing down houses with thunderous crashes to form a fire break.

  Rubix spotted his assignment here, a portly man of about fifty, stumbling down the front stairs of an old tenement. He coughed as he dragged a worn writing desk along with him. His eyes were small and watery, and his red tomato of a nose showed too much drink. Thomas Morland: butcher, terrible poet, and infamous drunkard. Rubix noted he was carting off his writing desk and a grubby collection of quills, yet was purposely neglecting—

  “Your wife! She’s still inside!” came a soft voice that pierced Rubix to his center.

  No.

  Rubix warily stepped into the shadows beneath the eaves as Julianne—clutching two children with soot-streaked faces and bright red hair—pleaded with the man.

  She was more beautiful than Rubix remembered, even with tangled hair and sweat dripping down her face. She wore a simple dress, the white sleeves gray with ash. And yet, she shone. Rubix couldn’t move.

  “I—I think she already got out,” Morland stuttered, motioning vaguely to the stragglers dragging furniture toward the city gates. But this was a lie. Rubix had read about Morland in the assignment background. He knew that he did not particularly care for his wife, hadn’t for years, and wished fervently that divorces were legal.

  “I haven’t seen her,” Julianne urged, as the child in her arms fussed. “Surely she’s still sleeping!”

  The man pretended not to hear her and coughed into his sleeve.<
br />
  “Oh, my,” a silky-smooth voice murmured in Rubix’s ear.

  Rubix jolted away to see a very calm, very handsome man standing in the shadows next to him. Satan himself.

  He was quite as stylish in Old English garb as he was in twenty-first century suits: a perfectly-stitched crimson jacket and carved-gold buttons; high-heeled, shiny black boots; a broad, white collar that showed absolutely no signs of soot. The look was topped off by a long, curly wig and a small pointed beard. But the dead, cold eyes were as dead and cold as always.

  “The poor man is quite undecided,” said Satan with a little smile. “I daresay he needs some... convincing.”

  Rubix remained silent as stone.

  “Apparently he’s not the only one,” Satan went on, the smile gone. “You know, it’s really not shoveling the coals that is so unbearable. Five minutes of shoveling is hardly even memorable. One hour? Well, even that would garner volunteers. No—it’s the eternity of it. More than the eternity. It is the lack of hope. Hope that you will ever be able to extract yourself from the blackened fire, or even that you could die, end the torment by throwing yourself into its blazing depths. But no. It is only, singularly, an eternity of agony and burning forever, and ever, and ever. Get out there, Reuben.”

  Rubix whipped away from Satan and strode toward Morland, who was waving Julianne away, coughing and grasping at his writing desk.

  Julianne covered her mouth, her dark eyes glistening as the firelight poured orange over Rubix’s advancing form. She breathed his name, but he paid her no mind. He merely grabbed Thomas Morland by the throat of his lacy collar, lifted him off his feet, and throttled him.

  “Get in there and be a man,” Rubix snarled. “If you don’t, the guilt will eat you alive—and trust me, I know what that feels like. Brave the fire or you will regret it for all eternity!”

  He threw Morland forward, and the man hit the steps with an oof. Immediately he was on his feet and through the old tenement door without a moment’s hesitation.

  The world held its breath.